We skirt around Place Émilie-Gamelin. I clutch her hand and my tote bag tighter. I’ve never known it to be a nice part of town. It doesn’t matter how many family friendly attractions fill the square the side streets are crawling with addicts. They have nowhere else to go.
And I need all the reasons I can find not to hate myself. But it’s hard. Even the idea makes me shiver. Because I see loving myself like looking down on others. Riding around on a high horse. And I never want to think I’m better then the people I see on the street. The ones who have it rough. The ones who don’t fit in. The ones I see my own face in.
Comments
Post a Comment